stars & mirrors
by tunnelOFdawn
Summary: A look into Viktor Nikiforov: Viktor feels like the dying remnants of a world long gone to waste. A world full of icy iridescence that blinded him and passion that electrified him. The world he occupies now is a world full of shadowy echoes that deafens him and coldness that deadens him. A world in constant catastrophe. What do you see when you look into the mirror?


Viktor feels like the dying remnants of a world long gone to waste. A world full of icy iridescence that blinded him and passion that electrified him. The world he occupies now is a world full of shadowy echoes that deafens him and coldness that deadens him. A world in constant catastrophe.

Looking out at him from his gilt-edged mirror is a distorted reflection of himself. A warped, malnourished version of himself. Yet, it is the most beautiful, blinding version of himself. _Look_ at my smile, he contemplates in hideous awe. A heart-shaped void. He has gems for eyes—sapphire, turquoise. Silver filaments for hair. His is a cold, lifeless beauty. It's hard remembering how being alive feels. Where has the vitality gone? But nobody has noticed his implosion.

The living legend made up the person he wanted to be and changed into a new personality. Even the greatest stars change themselves in the looking glass. Still, nobody has noticed his slow-going supernova. He is _catastrophic_. I am a star, Viktor knows. A star in all the right and _wrong_ ways. He wishes he was a binary star. It's lonely up here.

When he skates, he feels flawless. Technically perfect and perfectly soulless. If they looked closely, they would notice the gossamer-thin strands rising from his form. If they carved him open bit by bit, they would find his tendons replaced with wires. If they cracked open his skull, they would find the void of space. If they pried open his chest, they would find only dust. If, _if_ , because he can only live in if's.

Nobody's noticed anything wrong yet. They think physical perfection mirrors emotional stability. Maybe they're right. If (no, no, _since_ ) he can't feel anything, that means there isn't anything emotionally wrong. He isn't overwhelmingly sad or angry. He isn't going to exhibit a mental breakdown. A lack of emotions just means there's nothing to stabilize. He is fine; he is _perfect_. What he's experiencing now is all he's ever wanted.

Drum roll, please. Presenting the living legend, Viktor Nikiforov. He has it all: looks, talent, fame, wealth. He is a cornucopia of all that's perfect. His is the vessel of perfection. The pedestal is his home—has been for years. Viktor Nikiforov was born to make history and he truly has. But can he make the future?

There are no surprises left in him. Viktor has gotten to the point of his life, his career where his surprises have only become a well-known tendency. Innovation is no longer his hallmark. He has become perfection. The problem with perfection is that there is nothing left to aspire—nothing left to _become_. Perfection is predictable. The pure primal awe of witnessing his perfection has worn off. Nobody is shocked into a gasp, the tingle of enjoyment at witnessing a wonder.

When he lands his quadruple flip in competitions, nobody exclaims at how amazing it is to witness. They say, Viktor Nikiforov has done it again—landed that quad _perfectly_. There is no surprise left in Viktor Nikiforov to give or feel. Even he feels the tired repetitiveness of his movements.

So when the Grand Prix in Sochi comes around, he just smiles his heart-shaped smile and lets his hair cover his eye—one more barrier against his decaying world. It is a foregone conclusion that Viktor will win. He knows this; his competitors know this; his audience knows this; and so do the judges. Viktor has become an inevitability.

It is inevitable that his competitors cannot match up to him, but he still finds it slightly interesting when some Japanese skater implodes on ice and comes dead last. There is a beautiful honesty in this failure. A sort of bravery unmatched by Viktor's apathy. He almost feels a distant sense of sympathy resonating in his empty, empty bones.

The subsequent banquet cracks Viktor's icy apathy into iridescent shards. Viktor _feels_ a surprised sort of joy burbling through him—lightning striking his soul—when that Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki challenges everyone he encounters to a dance-off. Yuuri (the sort of name that curls and slides off his tongue) is _blinding_ in his brilliance. The sinuous curves of his form entice Viktor into titillation. Those thickly-muscled thighs splayed wide on a pole, he could almost salivate over.

When Yuuri moves, Viktor can _hear_ and _see_ music. When he dances, his world is invigorated. When he dances, the wind leaps to life in a hearty jig. When he dances, the birds swoop and swerve in tandem in a flurry of feathers. When he dances, the trees bend their branches and sway in unison. When he dances, flowers bloom beneath his feet in reverence. When he dances, the rivers fling themselves free of their banks and beg to caress his form.

When Yuuri dances with Viktor, Viktor is _enraptured_. For all that Yuuri has drank glass upon glass upon bottles of champagne, there is no mistaking the musicality and grace in his movements. Even when Yuuri flings himself upon Viktor and asks Viktor to coach him, Viktor is helpless to resist the beauty of his form.

In no world could Viktor have ever refused Yuuri's siren call. Abandoning all that he has known for Yuuri Katsuki revitalizes him. Exchanging his tired perfection as a figure skater for the unfamiliar mantle of a coach is a welcomed change in his world. It feels like coming home from a long trip and discovering that all that you have loved, love, and will love are just waiting there for you. And when he looks into the mirror, his eyes are clear and shining. When he smiles, the skin near his eyes crease. He feels _alive_.

For all that Yuuri has revitalized him, it is up to Viktor to commit himself fully to Yuuri and help him succeed as he has done—to help Yuuri flourish beyond Victor. It's been a long, long while since he has truly desired something. What he wants is Yuuri— _all_ of Yuuri. Maybe it's selfish to want to fill in all the gaps of Yuuri's life and let Yuuri repair Viktor's cracks with his gold. But just as people say that Yuuri is stealing Viktor from the world, he wants people to say that Viktor is stealing _Yuuri_ from the world. Let them rage against him in futile desperation. Let them watch Yuuri and Viktor becomes equals in the skating world and in their own worlds. Let their worlds merge into one.

Viktor feels like the verdant sprouts poking through the layer of ash. He is the aftermath of a forest fire. His growth may be inevitable, but it's still a pleasure to witness. And so the world he occupies now is a world on fire.

He feels like a binary star.

It turns out he never went supernova—just nova.


End file.
